


New Carols

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Christmas, Porthos-centric, Pre-Canon, not fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:31:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8751457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: It's christmas. Apparently. Porthos hasn't ever really had christmas before, but this year he just might.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt by acaitstuff on tumblr wanting porthos's first proper family christmas (it went a little awry). On AO3 at the request of rhesascoffee, basically just thank other people for this, not me :)

The thing about mornings is that sleeping off a skinful of wine doesn’t work if you had the skinful when it was already nearly morning and if you fall on the floor and sleep there. The other thing about mornings is that they come, whether you are drunk or sober or aching from it all. The other other thing about mornings is that when they come they bring with them things like duty and work and bright courtyards and trees. The last is a bit of a surprise. Porthos tries to disentangle himself from the branches, finds it effortful, and gives in to the tree’s embrace. He’s drifted off again, when raucous laughter has him trying another escape from the branches. 

 

“Porthos is stuck in the Christmas tree!” cries Matthew.

 

That really isn’t fair. He isn’t stuck, not really. Porthos stops struggling against the branches and delicately unwinds himself. It makes him a bit dizzy and he staggers, but he’s free. He holds out his arms to show Matthew, with enough steadiness and enough of a scowl to also offer Matthew a fight of it if he keeps up the teasing. Matthew just laughs, and the others too. Porthos joins them, waiting for whatever duty Captain Treville has for him today. From the courtyard he can see the tree, his recent enemy. It’s a big conifer, set in the corner. It has apples strung on it. Porthos goes to take one, but Marin takes the apple and puts it back on the tree. It seems a waste of good apples, to Porthos, and he resolves to come back when everyone is busy and eat as many as he can. 

 

He’s sent to stand guard over some merchant’s business, and he stands in the cold for hours, pretending he’s warm, that nothing touches him. He doesn’t even get to fight, he just stands. The merchant has a very pretty little daughter, who stands beside Porthos for a while, lisping about ice skating. Until her father comes and shouts at her until she goes back into the house. Then Porthos is alone again, for the rest of the afternoon. He whistles to keep himself occupied. Eventually he’s allowed to head back to the garrison and Serge, the old man who makes them food, gives him hot soup.   
He’s sat in the long room the musketeers use to eat, relax, talk, eating his soup, when Aramis comes into the room. Porthos watches him move across to the table where Marsac and Athos are playing cards, and sit with them. Porthos likes Aramis, and Athos. He doesn’t like Marsac so much, Marsac has an intensity to him that Porthos is wary of. Aramis catches him watching, and he looks quickly away, finishing his soup. He’s about to scrape back his chair and see about getting some of the apples on the tree for the horses, when someone starts to sing. He looks up, shocked. It’s Aramis, grinning, singing about three kings. 

 

“March of the Kings,” Athos mutters, shaking his head, disgusted. “Aramis, stop. We have a tree, is that not enough?”

 

“No, it is not. And our tree is hardly decorated! Even the apples I hung on there seem to be much more bare than yesterday. I think the stable boys are eating them,” Aramis says. 

 

Porthos flushes hotly, and scrapes his chair back, hurrying to return his bowl to Serge and thank him. Serge gives him a knowing look and slips him a couple of apples. He manages another thank you and heads for the stable. The horses are much easier than the men, sometimes. He’s been a musketeer almost a year, it’ll be a year come January. It’s still strange to him. Even the army was strange, but at least there it hadn’t mattered. Everyone had left Porthos alone and there wasn’t much beyond fighting. Here the men eat together, play cards together, celebrate together. The horses Porthos understands. He shares his apples with them. 

 

He finds himself humming the song Aramis was singing. The March of the Kings, Athos had called it. All about kings and marching. Like the things the men used to sing to march to. Porthos remembers the songs from churches, when he could get shelter there, sitting in close to the building listening to the singing. Charon had thought him mad for that. It was beautiful, though. Aramis, Porthos knows, goes often to church. Porthos sometimes follows him and sneaks in at the back. The horses are warm, and Porthos is feeling the effects of his wine, and the captain hasn’t given him anything more to do today, so he curls up in the hay and has a nap. He wakes to laughter. He looks up and finds himself the object of Aramis, Athos and Marsac’s attention. 

 

“Haven’t you got duty either?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Don’t think so,” Porthos says, stretching and getting to his feet, shaking the hay off. 

 

“Marsac is going home to his mother, for Christmas,” Aramis says. “Athos and I are going to mass. Would you like to come?”

 

Porthos nods. They haven’t invited him to church before, none of the musketeers have. It seems to have been assumed that he doesn’t have use for God. Or perhaps that he knows nothing of God. He’s not sure which, and he’s not sure which is the more hurtful thought. He’s seen both thoughts on their faces, sometimes. He walks with Athos, behind Marsac and Aramis. Marsac leaves them before they reach the church Aramis likes, and Porthos is happier with him gone. 

 

The church is warm. Porthos slides in at the back, but Athos and Aramis want to sit further forward, and take him with them. He ends up between them. He feels much bigger, like he’s sticking up and out, and everyone watching him. He’s used to that, though, so he ignores the feeling and looks about him. There are candles, and it smells of wax. There are also the glass windows with their bright colours, lit and beautiful. Porthos knows his God well, has met him on many occasions. Walking close to death means walking close to God, and he and Porthos are well acquainted. Porthos sends him a little prayer to say thank you for the beauty of the church, and the warmth, and for Aramis asking him along. 

 

“How did you talk me into this, again?” Athos says, leaning around Porthos and grumbling at Aramis, who just laughs. 

 

“You didn’t want to come?” Porthos can’t help asking, a little astounded. To say no never even entered his mind. 

 

“I do not believe in God,” Athos says. “Nor in Christmas.”

 

The Christmas tree, someone had said, earlier. And Marsac going home for Christmas. Is it Christmas? It must be around now. Porthos has never counted days in months like that, and Christmas meant little in the court. In the army some had talked or gone home or celebrated, but never with Porthos. He’d drunk a little extra, taking advantage of generosity. He thinks he might like Christmas, with the tree-apples and the church, and Aramis asking him along. He smiles at Aramis, who looks surprised but smiles back. He has a nice smile. Warm and enthusiastic and just a bit as if he’s going to cause trouble. 

 

The church fills up around them, lots and lots of people pressing in. Porthos tries to follow the priest and the talking and the prayers, but they’re in Latin, mostly. There are some stories in French about Mary and Jesus, which are nice. Porthos doesn’t know the songs, but Aramis does and sings along. There’s a beautiful sad one that Porthos likes, which Athos tells him is called Noel Nouvelet. They go up to the front at the end, Aramis making sure they jostle into the queue, and get white wafers and a little wine, and a blessing. Porthos says another quick prayer before they leave, thanking God for the words and the music. 

 

Aramis sings as they walk back toward the garrison. Porthos waits for him to pause, then hums the bit of the Noel Nouvelet one that he remembers. Aramis smiles and sings that instead, a couple of times through. Porthos listens carefully, gets the words, and sings the fourth time with him. Their voices match, and Athos doesn’t complain. They’re still singing when they get back to the garrison, going through it again. The captain’s on the balcony, though, and calls him up to the office. Porthos says goodbye to Aramis and Athos and thanks them for asking him along. He sneaks an apple off the tree as he passes, hands as quick as they’ve always been. It’s good to keep in practise. Just in case. 

 

“Do I have duty, sir?” Porthos asks. “I went to the church with Aramis and Athos, I hadn’t meant to neglect my duties.”

 

“No, no Porthos, not at all. You’ve never been anything but conscientious. I was simply under the impression that you had nowhere to go, for Christmas?” Captain Treville says, sitting at his desk, pouring himself a drink, and then filling a second glass. “Sit, have a drink.”

 

Porthos sits and sips from the glass. It’s good wine, better than he usually drinks, and strong. He sips slowly. 

 

“I don’t suppose I have anywhere to go,” Porthos says, at last, when he’s had a bit of wine. “Sir. But I hadn’t realised it was Christmas.”

 

“It is Christmas eve,” Captain Treville says. “Tomorrow is Christmas. There are quite a few men here who haven’t family to go to, or who are on duty for the holiday. Old Serge will do us a bit of food, and there will be company. Maybe, though, have family here, as it were. In their friends, and those they’re familiar with. I want you to feel at home here.”

 

“I do,” Porthos assures him. 

 

“Well then. That’s good. I have a lot that needs doing tomorrow, but I’ll be sure to be here at dinner. If you’d like to sit together, I would welcome the company.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Porthos says, finishing his wine and standing to go. He looks at the captain, and can see a lonely man, there. He’s always careful to see the captain as his captain, his superior officer. But tonight he can’t help but see the man behind it, and he sees a lot about people. Can’t seem to help it. He offers a smile. “I would be honoured.”

 

“Good,” captain Treville says. “You can go, Porthos. No need to hover.”

 

Porthos goes, clattering down to the courtyard, getting himself another apple. He bites into it, walking toward the quarters. 

 

“Ha! I’ve caught you!” Aramis cries, leaping up from a bench where he’d been sat polishing his pistols. “You’re the thief!”

 

Porthos freezes, and the apple falls from his mouth, hitting the ground and spoiling. His heart’s beating too hard, adrenaline flooding him. He turns on Aramis, squaring his shoulders and bearing his teeth a little, hand on his sword. Not that he needs it, he can beat Aramis with his fists if need be. He’s not getting caught for thieving up here in this nice part of town, not for love nor money. They’ll do unspeakable things to thieves here, he’s seen the lash marks and broken bones and bodies and hangings. He knows. He isn’t getting caught, not for an apple. Aramis falters, backing up a step, hands coming up in a pacifying move, and Porthos remembers himself. 

 

“What you calling me?” He asks, belligerant, angry at being turned into someone afraid and forgetting he’s a musketeer, a king’s man. “I’m not a thief.”

 

“J-just the apples, from tree,” Aramis whispers. “A figure of speech. You’re welcome to them of course, I was j-just… they’re for decoration. Serge has lots of apples, and you seem to be in favour with him. Why take my decorations?”

 

Porthos looks at the tree in bewildered confusion, then at the apple on the ground, then at Aramis. He stood to pick up the apple and brushes it off. It’s not too bruised, so he takes a bite. Chewing gives him time to think, and the sweet juice calms his beating heart a little, eases him.

 

“Why does a tree need decorations?” Porthos asks, eventually.

 

“For Christmas,” Aramis says. “It’s to celebrate Christmas, and to look pretty. It’s a Christmas tree.”

 

“Seems a funny place to put good food,” Porthos grumbles. “I won’t take no more, though, if you don’t want me to.”

 

“Didn’t you have a Christmas tree at home, growing up?” Aramis asks. 

 

“No,” Porthos says, grinning. “Course not, don’t be silly. Where would we have got one of them? What use has it got? Though, if they do come with apples on, I might rethink.”

 

“They’re just nice. What did you do on Christmas?” Aramis asks. “You’re from Paris, aren’t you? Judging by your accent. Did you go skating? Oh, let’s go skating! We’ll get Athos, too. I bet he can skate well. Did you do that?”

 

“No,” Porthos says, still amused about the tree and now about the skating too. He laughs hard, grinning at Aramis to see what he’ll say next. 

 

“What did you do for Christmas, then?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Nothing,” Porthos says. “I’m not sure really, because I dunno when it was. But I think probably nothing.”

 

“You didn’t even know when it was?” Aramis asks. 

 

“No. I did in the army, people would talk about it. Oh, we used to get more wine around Christmas,” Porthos says. 

 

“Right. I’ll get Athos. We’re going ice skating, and then I’m taking you to midnight mass, and then in the morning we’re going to sit under the tree and then we’ll have good food at dinner. It’ll be a proper Christmas.”

 

Porthos shrugs. He’s okay with doing all of that, if Aramis likes. He isn’t sure about ice skating, but he’s sure he can manage it. It can’t be harder than sword fighting. He lied to the sargant who recruited him about that, said he knew how to fight when he’d never held a blade in his life except the knives used in the court. He’d got the hang of it pretty quickly. One end is sharp, that goes into a person. Not too hard, really. The rest was just getting your shot in before the other man, which was just like hand to hand. 

 

It’s fairly late, but they walk to the rink and there are still people out on the ice. They have to stop to get skates, Athos paying with only a little grumble. Porthos sits to get his on and does the laces up all the way to the top, tying them tightly and making sure the laces are out of the way. He totters to the ice, sets a skate carefully on. His foot shoots out from under him, and he falls. He gets back up quickly, hoping no one has seen, but he goes over again at once. Aramis is laughing. He and Athos are standing quite easily on the ice. Porthos gets back to his feet, determined to stay up this time. He does. 

 

“Don’t worry,” Athos says. “The hard part is getting on.”

 

Aramis skates away, sailing smooth and easy over the ice. Athos stands, awaiting Porthos, so Porthos takes a careful step. He manages two before he goes over again. Athos holds his arm when he gets back up and helps him balance until he has it better. He manages a slow bit of clumsiness, moving around the edge of the ice. Children and women and men over take him and he gets laughed at, but he doesn’t really mind. He probably is quite comical, stumbling along. He falls over again, but gets up without minding that either. It’s cold and wet, but otherwise okay. Athos, deciding he’s okay, skates away. 

 

Porthos keeps determinedly at it, but soon Aramis and Athos are swinging past him. And then again. And again. The fourth time Athos slows and stops, linking his arm with Porthos's. It's easier to move around with Athos keeping him upright, and Porthos starts getting the hang of it. Aramis comes by and slows, waiting for them, taking Porthos's other arm. It's much better like that, not falling over every second. Warmer, too. And there's the added bonus that Aramis starts singing that nice song again. Porthos joins in, and eventually Athos does, too. Athos has a nice voice. 

 

They skate for a long time, until it's mostly couples on the ice, and young people. Then they return to the earth and Porthos is glad to get his boots back on. They're a pair that Serge passed on to him that fit quite well and have almost no holes. Porthos is quite proud of his boots. He is glad to get them back, after his skates. Athos takes the skates to the man he paid for them, only a loan afterall. Porthos stands, legs shaky, heart full to bursting with happiness. He's been to church and he's ice skated today. That's two Christmas things. And he's learnt this Christmas song. He gets Aramis to teach him the one about the marching kings, on the way back. 

 

Athos invites them both back to his room, and gets some wine out. He lights a fire and heats it, and Aramis goes to fetch some spices. That’s also a Christmas thing, Aramis tells Porthos. While he’s gone, Athos and Porthos sit by the fire. Porthos looks into it, watching the flames. 

 

“You haven’t celebrated Christmas before?” Athos asks, softly.

 

“No,” Porthos says. “I never really thought about Christmas. There have always been other things.”

 

“Christmas is for family,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. 

 

They’re silent again after that, waiting for Aramis. Family, Porthos thinks, staring at the fire. He hasn’t ever had that. He’s not managed to find himself a place in the world, and he’s not managed to find his family. He’d thought, perhaps, outside the court he might hear something of his father. But not so far, and the world outside the court is much bigger than he’d ever imagined. Not just Paris, either, but beyond. Fields, hills even. Tall hills, taller than the steepest bit of Paris. Forests with so many trees Porthos couldn’t being to have thought of all of them. Other towns, with strange streets. So many people. And in all of that big world, not any family. Aramis returns with the spices and they drink the hot sweet wine. 

 

They walk back to church in silence. They’re early again to get seats nearer the front. Porthos sits between the other two again, and expects it to be similar. The candles are already lit. The beginning is similar, with more Latin and stories about Jesus and the priest telling them to be kind to each other and things about God. Porthos sits quietly and listens, and in the Latin bits he talks to God himself, in French. Giving thanks, but also asking about his family again. He often asks God about his family, but God hasn’t yet answered. Not yet. He’s probably quite busy. There’s a lot for God to do, out there in the cold night. Porthos has walked with him in the court, with the dying and the dead and God. He knows how much there is to do. He doesn’t begrudge God having more important things than helping Porthos. 

 

Then there’s more singing, and some beautiful singing, and then it’s midnight and the candles, the singing, the sombre tone, the Latin and chanting, gets to Porthos. The churhc is buzzing, hot and thick with something. Like God’s right there. In the bright light of the candles, in the glass, the voices in the choir. Porthos finds himself moved, his heart aching. He wipes his cheeks and finds tears. He looks surreptitiously around, then banishing his shame. He sits and weeps, for his friends in the cold, for his years alone, for his family. For all the lost, for all the dead, for the court and the city of Paris, for the poverty. And for Jesus who died for them, so they could go to heaven. 

 

As midnight passes his tears turn to joy, as the music gets more celebratory. Like he’s full of light, everything bad being banished, God right with him still filling him up with such good feelings he has to weep for it. He closes his eyes, lets himself smile and smile, and just soaks it all up. He feels a hand on his back, from Athos, but when he looks Athos is staring straight ahead. Aramis has his head bent in prayer. It’s definitely Athos’s hand. It rubs, and is comforting and warm. Porthos’s heart leaps. He always did like Athos. Perhaps they might be better friends, in the future. After sharing this. 

 

When they issue out into the cold with the rest of the crowd, Athos keeps hold of Porthos’s elbow. Aramis is quiet, this time, not singing. They walk a little ways, then Athos stops them, frowning at Porthos. 

 

“Are you cold?” Athos asks. “You’re shaking.”

 

“No,” Porthos says, smiling. “No. I just felt like God was very close, and usually when he’s close it’s for the dying, but this time it was for the living. It was really beautiful, that’s all.”

 

They walk on, back to the garrison again. It’s dark and silent, everyone asleep. They part in the courtyard, but hesitate, standing together for a moment longer even in the cold. 

 

“Happy Christmas, Porthos,” Aramis says, quietly, smiling very widely, holding Porthos’s shoulder. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” Porthos says. “And you, Athos.”

 

“Yes, you too,” Athos says. “Both of you. Thank you for today, it was a good Christmas eve.”

 

“And tomorrow we eat, right?” Porthos asks. “That’s what tomorrow is for? Eating?”

 

“Yes,” Aramis says, laughing.

 

“Good!” Porthos says. 

 

He’s happy, and today has been very good, and these two men have made it very good. His exuberance overflows him, and he embraces them each, one by one, before saying goodnight and happy Christmas and goodnight again. Finally Athos sends him to bed, and he goes. He falls asleep smiling and dreams about God and feeling warm and cherished. God, for him, is for being cherished, for cherishing. God means love and kindness and beautiful things in a terrible world. God is respite and care and everything bright and wonderful. When he wakes, Porthos’s heart feels full and his head giddy and for a moment he suspects wine. Then he remembers about yesterday, and gets up with enthusiasm. 

 

Today is Christmas, which means eating. Which means a tree with apples for decoration, and church, and songs. Which means Aramis and Athos, hopefully, to help him learn more about Christmas. Maybe, just maybe, now they’re friends. Real, good, deep friends. Friends are the next best thing to a family. Maybe they’re even better. Jesus’s family was made up of friends, at the end, before he died. And Joseph was Jesus’s family, even though he was no relation really except by marriage. Porthos decides what’s good enough for Jesus is good enough for him. Especially on Christmas.


	2. The Next Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For acaitstuff who wanted : What about day two of Porthos's first Christmas with the Musketeers (the eating). Follow up to your lovely Carol fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: hunger, memories of being hungry as a child

The thing about mornings is that they come too early. Morning starts when midnight ends, really. The other thing about mornings is that they are dark. The problem with the dark isn’t the lack of sight, Porthos can use his other sense just fine. He knows that there’s something with him, near him, standing over him. He can sense it. It doesn’t matter that he’s not even where he thinks he is, or that he knows there is nothing and no one in the room with him, it’s still there somehow. It came out of his dream with him, and he knows from experience it will stay until he thinks he’s in the room, instead of lying tucked in under the house, hiding. The worst things about morning is the hunger, though. He always wakes hungry, and it makes it harder to remember. He lies still, waiting for the darkness, the terror, the hunger, the memory to lift, for the something to go away. If he moves it might see him, so he lies still, quiets his breathing, and just waits. 

When the light comes, Porthos’s hand finds his crucifix, hung around his neck. He stole it, it’s not really his, but he can’t bring himself to give it up. He’s had it a long time, longer than he’s had anything else in his possession. It feels like his, it warms for his fingers. It brings the great swelling comfort of God’s protection, and Porthos can finally see the room, his bed, his jacket hung over the chair, his water jug. He gets up, gets the bucket from the window sill, full of rain. He washes with it and dresses himself, keeping his hand around his cross, keeping close to God. He wonders if death is near, for God to be so willing to stick around with Porthos all morning. It’s still early, though, so perhaps it hasn’t got busy for God yet. Porthos waits for the light to brighten a little more, then heads out into the courtyard. 

It’s snowed in the night, and is so quiet and still and white. No one else is up, as yet. He knows if he goes to the stable the stable hands will be up, the boys already taking those horses that need it, that aren’t going to be called for, out of Paris for a run. The kitchen will be awake, too, Porthos knows. He’s sat in there sometimes, with old Serge. It’s warm by the stove and Serge is kind company. This morning, though, he notices again the tree. A tree for Christmas, the kind that sheltered Jesus, it’s branches still green even so late in the year. Aramis’s apples look absurd, the small wrinkled winter flesh of them almost hidden. Porthos makes up his mind, and heads out. 

He’s almost done by the time the courtyard starts filling with sleepy, mostly disgruntled, musketeers. It’s still not very bright, though the snow makes it an odd light. Porthos has begged some fire from Serge in the kitchen and has lit all the candles, and the wire is holding. The whole tree is lit up. The musketeers gather around and stare at it. Aramis and Athos are last to appear, but they push through to Porthos, and Aramis embraces him. 

“Saw it in Alsace, once,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Haven’t ever seen a Christmas tree before, except there. I didn’t realise it was Christmas or the tree was for that. But I’ve heard the story about the tree sheltering Christ. We were fighting, in Alsace. Is this a Huguenot thing? This tree?”

“Little bit,” Athos says. He sounds sarcastic and amused, and he’s teasing. Aramis, probably. It’s usually Aramis that Athos teases. “I never thought… it’s beautiful, with the lights.”

“I shot it. In Alsace. Got it over, and it set fire to their defences,” Porthos says. “Merry Christmas, hmm? I think God probably thinks less of me for that one.”

“I think He probably thinks plenty,” Aramis says, still staring at the tree, eyes wide and bright and pleased. “And I think he probably thinks enough to know better than to think less of you.”

“That is a lot of ‘think’s,” Athos says. “Breakfast time. Come, I’m hungry. Porthos may have brought the stars down among us, but my stomach doesn’t seem to care.”

Porthos’s stomach rumbles loudly, and Aramis turns away from the tree, laughing. He rests a hand over Porthos’s grumbling belly and pats it.

“Neither, clearly, does Porthos’s,” Aramis says. 

They head inside to eat. Breakfast is just bread and fruit, a little meat. Athos tells Porthos it’s because Serge is cooking things for later, for dinner, when there’ll be a feast. Porthos shrugs. He’s tired, and he’s hungry, and he doesn’t care about later. He cares about now. He eats what he’s given, though, and is glad of it. It fills his stomach enough, and he can remember too clearly, this morning, having nothing. The memory of that makes his meal sit uncomfortably anyway, eating more wouldn’t have been a good idea. Porthos heads out as soon as he’s finished, and goes to the stable to fetch his mare. He takes her up out of Paris and gives her free reign, letting her gallop as she wishes. He’s been doing it himself since he found out the stable boys did this, as practise. He learnt to ride in the army, but the other musketeers are much more skilled than him, still. So he comes out and practices. 

When he gets back, cold, face burnt by the wind, exhilarated, Marin is waiting. Porthos had promised to spar with him, he remembers. He puts his horse away and leaves the stable hands to rub her down and feed her. Marin is better with a blade, but Porthos is better hand-to-hand, so they train together, exchanging skill-sets. They start with hand-to-hand, this morning, Porthos’s breath still hard from his ride, adrenaline still up. He could take Marin to the floor with ease, but they’re training, learning. They go slowly, circle, and Porthos shows Marin how to spot weaknesses and openings, how to use his strength. He becomes aware of an audience, but ignores it and stays focused. He’s aware, though, of someone behind him, and when they move forward he spins and pins them to the floor. Just in case. He holds their arm away, in case of a knife, and keeps a knee in a good spot, ready. Aramis looks up at him, face slack with shock. 

“Oh,” Porthos says, letting him go. “It’s you.”

He walks around Marin so his back is no longer to the courtyard, and goes back to work. Marin is grinning, and wants to learn to do that, but he can barely get a grip on a man, let alone get him on the ground. He can barely even get close. Porthos shakes his head and dodges an attack, bored. He lets Marin get closer, then lifts him over a shoulder and waits for the tap to his back. Marin gives it, laughing, and Porthos lets him down. 

“I’m as big as you are,” Marin says. “How do you do that with such ease?”

“Practise,” Porthos says. “I know how to use my strength, that’s all. It’s all I had. Come on, let’s try the sword. You can beat me at that.”

“It’s getting harder,” Marin says, as they fetch their blades, waiting on the table. “I can’t teach you much more. Better to ask Athos.”

Marin indicates to the left, and Porthos sees Athos, watching with Aramis. Porthos feels uncomfortable with the scrutiny, all of a sudden. Why are they watching him? They seem suddenly interested. He’s eaten breakfast with them before, mostly when Marsac has been away. It must be the church that’s different, that has them watching him like that. He wonders if he gave too much away, going with them like that. His tears, perhaps. They’re friends, though. That is the hope, anyway. Real friends. Porthos smiles at them and waves, pushing the rest away, and Aramis laughs happily and waves back, bouncing on the spot. 

“Will you teach him?” Marin calls. 

“Let’s see how good he is,” Athos says. 

That sounds like a challenge, to Porthos. He grins, and tests the weight of the sword, as he’s been taught. Athos will, judging from his bearing and accent, have learnt this long long ago. He’ll have fought with rapiers more than swords, and know fencing. He’ll also know by now how to best kill a man. Porthos thinks about everything he knows about Athos, and sets up his fight in his mind, keeping Marin’s style there too. They’ve fought often by now, and Porthos knows how to predict Marin, knows the little tricks and feints. Marin has taught them to him, he ought to know. 

He doesn’t beat Marin, not the first time. Marin is quick, and Porthos is still getting used to how to use his strength, with a sword. Or, most of the time, not use his strength. It’s hard, to know he can beat Marin and not doing it, not using what he knows. He wants to get better with the sword, but he’s also very aware that he’s trusting Marin. Trusting that they are sparring, that death isn’t close. Porthos pauses between fights to wrap his hand around his cross, to check God isn’t nearby, waiting. He’s not. Porthos puts his trust in that. 

He fights better the second time, with God far from him. He still doesn’t win, but he’s getting better. The third time around he does win, drawing a bloom of red from Marin’s hand, blade slicing deeper than he means or wants. He’d expected to meet Marin’s defence. He drops his sword and presses his hand over the wound, using pressure to keep the blood from coming too quick. He looks up and Marin’s watching, head tilted a little. Porthos undoes the bandana around his hair and unfolds it, finding the clean middle, and uses it to bandage the cut. 

“Thank you,” Marin says. “It’s not deep, I’ll be fine.”

“Merry Christmas,” Porthos mutters. 

“That, my friend, is supposed to be a joyful wish, not a bitter self-deprecation,” Aramis says, coming forwards. “You have used it that way twice now, today.”

“I thought you’d defend against that,” Porthos says, ignoring Aramis. 

“As I said, it’s getting harder to beat you,” Marin says. “No harm is done, du Vallon. And Merry Christmas to you too. If you’ll excuse me, I am on duty at the palace this afternoon. You should teach him, Athos, he’s a quick study.”

Marin lopes off, and Porthos gets his back against the stairs up to the captain’s office, scanning the courtyard swiftly to make sure nothing’s changed. Aramis and Athos are still standing near him, and everyone else is on duty or at home celebrating Christmas. Porthos hasn’t got duty, unless something happens, until this evening. 

“I’ll teach you, if you like,” Athos says. “I’d be happy to spar with you.”  
Porthos smiles broadly. That means he was good enough, despite losing and hurting his opponent. Athos is the best in the regiment with a blade, everyone knows that. To have him to spar with, Porthos will surely have a step up on the others. 

“Sorry for putting you on the floor,” Porthos says to Aramis, suddenly recalling. “Thought you might be after getting a knife in my ribs.”

“No, just came to watch,” Aramis says. “Will you come to church, before dinner?”

Porthos hesitates, touching his cross. He’s always used it to judge how close he is to death. He has the pattern of his cross under his fingers matched with the one in his mind that means danger for himself or some other. To go to church often the way he did yesterday might break that pattern. It means more trust given over to the musketeers, this regiment of men who seem to look on one another as friends and family, brothers. Porthos has seen great acts of loyalty here, in the last year, and the least of them not from Aramis or Athos. He’s seen Aramis covering for a drunk Athos, seen Aramis getting Athos home. Has seen Athos caring for Aramis after a wound, has seen Athos arguing with Marsac over Aramis. Even Marsac has done his fair share keeping Aramis and Athos safe. 

“Yes,” Porthos says. 

He’ll go with them. When Marsac returns, he can always withdraw again. Or get to know the man. Perhaps his first impressions have been ungenerous. He can be friends without trusting whole-heartedly, as well, if it comes to that. He goes with them and sits between them again and listens to the Latin, to the singing. He keeps his eyes closed all the way through, keeps his mind on this new kind of feeling, this new religion. It’s less desperate than from the court, less private. Porthos isn’t sure he’ll keep it, but he enjoys sitting through it with the other two. He enjoys it. 

“I’m hungry,” Aramis says with relish, as they walk back through the cold. 

It’s snowing again, and Porthos is happy. He listens to Aramis chattering about what there might be to eat, and Athos interjecting with sarcastic little remarks. He watches the streets around them, careful, but puts his trust in them. The three of them, to keep safe. When they make it back to the garrison there are tables set up in the hall, laden with food and wine. There’s a fire lit, and candles, and the men are loud. There’s singing, too. Serge is still bringing out food. They’re not the only ones who have been to church, and there are a lot of men coming in behind them, so Porthos searches quickly for the captain. He can’t spot him anywhere, so he excuses himself and slips away, taking the stairs carefully, mindful of the ice and snow. 

“Captain Treville?” he asks, stepping into the office. 

“Ah, Porthos! Happy Christmas!” Captain Treville says, looking up from papers with a wide smile. “Have you come to remind me of the time?”

“It’s dinner,” Porthos says.

“We’d better go, then, before the others eat everything,” Captain Treville says, stowing his papers quickly and standing.  
Porthos warns him to be careful on the stairs and they walk into the room together. Captain Treville stops here and there to exchange words with people, and finally settles near the fire. Porthos sits beside him and accepts a mug of wine. Aramis and Athos are across the table from them and down a little, but Aramis shoves and bullies until they’re right opposite. Porthos looks away and fills his plate, warm thrumming through him. There’s stuffed pheasant, veal, slices of ham. Apples and apricots, glazes and jams and honey. Roasted potatoes, fish, chestnuts, bread. Porthos doesn’t recognise half the things on the table, but he gets a bit of everything he can reach and tries it all. The chestnuts he likes, and he eats a lot of those and the apples. The fish is good too. A lot of the meat is rich so he only eats a little. The fresh bread is still warm, and smells incredible and tastes even better. Porthos sits and eats his way through everything in front of him, then sits back, beaming. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat with such pleasure,” Captain Treville says, sounding amused.

Porthos looks to make sure he’s not being made fun of, then holds up his mug in a toast, grinning back at the captain. He helps himself to more food, but eats it slowly, asking the captain what some things are, finding out what the others enjoy, what tastes they prefer. Aramis likes things sweet, Athos likes the rich meats and the wine. Captain Treville seems to like everything, but shows a marked pleasure at the apricots. Porthos stores the information carefully away, in case he should need it later. He also stores away the captain’s warm smiles and relaxation. He hasn’t seen him so relaxed before, and the loneliness and weariness in him have lifted. Porthos slaps him on the back at a joke and roars with laughter, which makes Treville’s smile broaden. 

“Athos told me a story, once,” Aramis says, leaning over the table, trying to get hold of the fish left on Porthos’s plate. “About the cow, Athos, tell us that one.”

Porthos gets his knife out of his belt and aims for Aramis’s sneaky fingers. Aramis yelps and withdraws back to his own food, sucking the little prick to his finger. Porthos finishes his fish and gets his plate closer. 

“No one eats my food,” he says, scowling at Aramis. 

“No need to stab me!” Aramis says, showing off his finger, with its small wound. 

“Don’t take my food,” Porthos says, filling his plate with what’s left on the platters near him. 

He frowns, realising that he’s getting this wrong. He has more of the fish, folded carefully in his handkerchief for later, with some of the bread, in his hat. He slides the fish onto his plate without anyone noticing he had it hidden, puts the bread back, and then holds his plate out to Aramis. Athos is giving him a curiously intense look, and Captain Treville is giving him a strangely sorrowful one. Aramis takes the fish with a grin, and in return tosses Porthos the last apple. 

“I am sorry,” Captain Treville says softly, when the others are busy talking. 

“For what?” Porthos asks, eating his potatoes and bread and apple. 

“No, northing,” Captain Treville says, with a sigh, looking conflicted and unhappy. “Just that I am aware that some of the men who come to us from the army haven’t had the benefit of things like this, growing up. Of having food.”

I’m sorry you grew up with poverty, is what Captain Treville means. Porthos has thought before that the captain might know where and how Porthos grew up, or that his guesses come close. He isn’t sure how he feels about that, about anyone knowing. The captain looks so distressed, though. So Porthos smiles gently. 

“I grew up in the court, Captain. Not having food was the least of my worries. I had friends, though, and we looked after one another, and I got here. Where there is food in abundance, and ready friendship. My life ain’t too hard,” Porthos says. “Are you going to eat that apricot?”

“Yes I am!” Captain Treville says, effectively distracted. “You’re not having it!”

Porthos takes his plate out to the kitchen and lifts a couple of apricots from people who aren’t paying attention on his way. He helps bring out more jugs of wine and sweet pastries, honey cakes, tartes. On seeing this, more men get up to help, and soon the tables are clear of debris and full instead of sweet things and more wine. Porthos takes his seat again and sets his four pinched apricots on his fresh plate. 

“Where did you get those?” Aramis asks, fingers sneaking then drawing quickly back, clearly remembering the poke last time he tried to get Porthos’s food. “There were none left!”

Porthos shrugs, and offers them one each. Athos gives him an amused look, and glances at Barat. Porthos looks as innocent as he can, which is very innocent. He’s had practise. Athos actually smiles. 

“Funny,” he murmurs, quiet enough for just Porthos to hear. “Barat seems to have misplaced his apricot. As has-”

“Tell us about that cow,” Porthos says loudly, sitting back. 

“It came right into the hall,” Athos says. “At Christmas, when I was small. We came down to dinner and there it was, sat at the table. We didn’t even notice, we thought it was my father.”

Aramis giggles, leaning against Athos, splashing wine about. Captain Treville reaches over and confiscates the jug, pouring the last of it into his own and Porthos’s mugs. Porthos sits back from the table a little, to look around and watch. He has his plate full of sweet things, and he takes it with him, out of reach of Aramis. The fire is warm at behind him, close enough that no one can get through there, keeping him safe, and the captain sits back with him, gaze warm and content as he, too, looks around. 

“A good Christmas, I think, this year,” Treville says. 

“Yes,” Porthos agrees. “I think so.”

“You’re up at the palace this evening, aren’t you? Overseeing the ball. I’ll be there as a guest,” Captain Treville says, sounding a little bitter about that. “Athos and Aramis are on duty with you.”

“Oh?” Porthos says. 

“I thought you three might like to keep company,” Captain Treville says. 

Porthos nods. He wonders who will be keeping the captain company, but he doesn’t ask. For all he knows Captain Treville has many high and mighty friends who attend balls at the palace. He finishes his sweet things and his wine, and then sets about eating everything he can get his hands on, trying everything while he can. Captain Treville watches him with barely stifled amusement, and there’s some of that warmth Porthos has been feeling more and more with the regiment recently. 

Duty at the palace is long and boring, but Aramis and Athos are good company and they manage to entertain themselves, thinking up games to play while they stand. It’s hours and hours before the party winds up, and they slog back to the garrison in thick snow, more coming down, leaving the palace staff to clear up. Porthos is tired, but the good kind of tired. He can’t stop smiling. When they reach the garrison, Athos invites them to his room for wine, and they drink until the sun comes up, before falling asleep all together on the floor among the blankets Athos brings out. It’s been a long time since Porthos slept with another body close, and that warmth joins the rapidly spreading warmth of friendship and Christmas and the joy of sharing things with people again.


End file.
